re:do
by moogleizer
Summary: Sort of a reincarnation AU, many, many decades after L&L. Ephinea is not really the same. Much that should not have been forgotten has faded from memory. Drama and suffering. Blah blah blah. POV switches between two characters. Yup.
1. re:visit

Richard had always liked the sea. The sea was mystery, endless in all directions, reaching for ever distant shores; reaching downwards, too, deep into itself; deep, deep down to an unknowable far away. The sea was adventure, calling out with each sigh of wave glancing shore, beckoning the bold-hearted to ever-afters and never-mores, washing dreams and promises and memories onto white, black, and golden sands. Most of all, the sea was freedom. The sea had three rules only—the rules of wind, and wave, and sky. Only the expanse of heaven above. Only the dark of water below.

Yes, Richard loved the sea. It moved through his blood, singing its slow and ancient rhythm to his very heart.

That was why, when he met that boy with eyes the deepest blue of the ocean, he knew he must be imagining things.

"I'm Asbel," the specter chirped, thrusting forth a small, squarish hand.

Richard stared at the lines criss-crossing the rough palm, studied the squat fingers, took in the careless character of the blatantly chipped and dirty nails. His eyes wandered up the still suspended arm to the newly frayed sleeve, then further up to the knobby shoulder, and finally to the slightly tanned, impish, babyround face framed by deep auburn wisps. And nestled in that face, wide, bright sapphires reflecting a carefree world; those eyes, those ocean depths.

He said nothing. The boy who called himself Asbel frowned.

"Crap, don't tell me I've still got mud on my face. I thought I'd gotten it all!"

The ocean-eyes vanished behind a flurry of sleeves. Suddenly aware that the thing in front of him was no illusion, Richard all but leapt backwards.

"Woah, hey!" The stranger held his palms up and open before him. A gesture of passivity. A display of harmlessness. Richard knew the motion well, and he knew it bitterly. "You okay there, uh…kid?"

Richard stared at him, wary, uncomprehending. The boy looked younger than him. He had a lot of nerve to address Richard as "kid". He did not seem particularly threatening. Even still, he could not help his nails digging sharp crescents into the palm of his clenched fists. Even still, he had one foot poised to run.

_Never let your guard down_, his father's voice echoed in his head. _You never know who is coming after you, or how. The only thing you can be sure of is why._

It was frustrating, being the son of an ambassador. Richard felt always smothered. He could never get to know the places he travelled to with his father the way he wanted to know them. Always, he longed for their secrets. Always, they were denied him.

Today, though…today had been special. Today, after much careful planning, Richard had run away. It was an isolated place he'd selected for his day trip—he'd made sure of that while poring over old maps he'd found during his chaperoned outing to the library. An unnamed lake in an unmarked wood, roughly an hour's walk away from the town proper. No one was meant to be here. So why? Why did this loud, ruffian-looking boy have to show up and ruin it all? And worse, to call himself by that particular name…

"Who are you?" Richard growled, leaning back even further. He refused to be taken by surprise a second time.

"Huh? I already told you, I'm Asbel."

"You're not Asbel. I don't know where you heard that name, but it's not funny. Now tell me who you are, or…or I'll scream!"

"What the heck? Why would you do that?"

Richard sucked in a lungful of air. Screaming would be pointless, he knew. Normally it would bring his father, his nanny, his tutor, half the household staff and a small contingent of armed guards running to his location. There was no one around here to hear him, though. Yet the other boy did not seem to consider this fact at all. Beneath those auburn bangs, he was as pale as ash.

"W-wait a minute—"

The strange boy reached out, alarm and irritation flashing in his eyes. _Eyes like the sea_, thought Richard again, and his voice died in his throat. He stepped deftly to one side. A flash of fingertips brushed the air in front of him where his arm had been moments ago. He slapped the imposter's hand away.

"Stay away from me," he demanded, turning on his heel even before the first few syllables tumbled out of his mouth. Eyes squeezed shut to block out that depthless gaze, Richard ran. Even as the waves called out to him, he ran. He ran until the currents were a distant echo, and then a whisper, and then a memory.

He ran, and he ran, and he ran.

* * *

_-end prologue-_


	2. re:member (skip childhood?)

**soundtrack: _Run _by Daughter**

* * *

All day, people came and went. Where they came from, where they went to, Asbel neither knew nor cared. He wished they would stop. He didn't mind activity, but it wasn't any fun when the hustle and bustle consisted mostly of adults tsk-tsking him and shooing him out of the way.

"Watch out, kid!"

"Whose child is this?"

"Ah, that would be the birthday boy!"

"You're not needed here yet. Out of the way before you're trampled!"

"Young master Asbel!"

That last voice belonged to Frederic, Lhant manor's head butler. Asbel heaved a sigh of relief as he scurried his way under a massive cake to where Frederic stood at the other end of the hall. The two poor clowns carrying the confectionary masterpiece shrieked in alarm at the small red-and-turquoise blur darting past them. That, at least, made Asbel smirk.

"What is all this, Frederic?" Asbel asked, waving his arms to indicate the general hullaballoo about the manor.

"Preparations for your birthday feast, young master," Frederic replied. "It's not every day the mayor's son turns thirteen years old."

"I don't want a birthday feast. I don't even know these people. They don't even want me around."

"That's not true, young master. They are simply very busy at the moment. Once the festivities begin, you'll be the center of attention. You'll see"

Asbel's face twisted into a frown. He didn't want to be the center of attention. Rather than spending his thirteenth birthday cooped up in the manor, surrounded by stuffy adults, he'd much prefer to be out and about with Hubert and Cheria, playing knights and dragons at the old abandoned cabin out on West Lhant High Road. There was no point telling that to Frederic, though. It wasn't Frederic who made the demands.

"Now, Master Asbel, I suggest you start getting ready. Your guests will be arriving any minute now."

"Guests? You mean…_more_ people?"

"Yes, _more_ people," came a voice even more familiar than Frederic's.

"Ah," said Frederic, bowing slightly, "Good Afternoon, Lady Kerri. Young Master Hubert. How splendid you both look."

Asbel winced and turned, slowly. He'd been avoiding his mother since yesterday morning, when she suddenly demanded that he clean his side of the room.

"_It's an absolute sty_," she'd scolded, pushing him up the stairs with a dust pan and broom in his hands. _"You clean it up right now, Asbel Lhant, or I'm withholding your allowance!"_

Needless to say he'd waited for her to get distracted before he ran out of the manor and spent the day running around town, playing harmless pranks and visiting his favorite stores.

Seeing this ruckus of people now, though, it was no wonder she wanted him to clean his room. It certainly wouldn't look very good if the first-born son of Mayor Aston Lhant was seen to live in a bedroom that looked like the plague had been through it. Still, Asbel never was one to care for appearances. And anyway, it was _his_ birthday. He shouldn't have to do anything he didn't want to.

He was fully prepared to speak his mind to his mother when the sight of a blue-tuffed poodle made the words dry up on his tongue.

No, not a poodle. _Hubert_.

All the air left Asbel's body in a rush of unseemly laughter.

"H…H…Huber…Hu…What the hell…are you _wearing_?"

The sharp-eyed little boy looked bad enough in the green-and-yellow atrocity of a diamond-patterned vest and matching shorts, but to top it all off, fluffy white collar frills adorned his neck, practically burying his chin and jaw. Hubert turned red, then white, then purple. Finally, he turned his face away, his eyes narrowed and gleaming.

"Please tell me you're not making me wear that too," Asbel asked, once he'd caught his breath.

"Of course not. Your father ordered a special suit for you last week. And how dare you laugh at Hubert. He looks absolutely adorable. Doesn't he, Frederic?"

Their mother reached down and lovingly pinched Hubert's cheek. He turned red all over again. Asbel thought he saw tears.

"Simply charming, Lady Kerri," Frederic conceded. "Like a little prince."

"Are you kidding? He looks like a—"

Asbel stopped. Now he definitely saw tears.

"A…a king! Yeah, Hubert, you totally look like some king from a fairy tale or something. You look really cool!"

"Stop lying, Asbel," Hubert sniffled. "You're not any good at it."

"No, I'm serious! You look awesome, Hubert!"

Words were no use. Hubert turned on his heel and darted down the hall, nearly knocking over one of the several maids carrying streamers before disappearing around the corner.

"Aw, crap."

"Watch your language, young man. You go apologize to Hubert right this instant. And you can clean up your room while you're at it. Don't think I've forgotten how you ran out yesterday. And Asbel?"

Asbel paused, having just been about to take off down the hall after Hubert. His mother took a step towards him, placed a loving hand atop his head, and kissed him warmly on the cheek.

"Happy birthday, son."

"Aw, mom," he protested, swiping at the place where her lips had been. "You're embarrassing me!"

He didn't wait around to see if anyone had witnessed him being treated like a child. Following in Hubert's footsteps, Asbel sped down the long corridor, bumping into a maid on his way. Streamers flew out of her arms, obscuring the little boy's flight around the corner.

"Sorry!" he shouted over his shoulder, even as his mother yelled after him.

"Asbel Lhant! No running in the house!"

* * *

Hubert was exactly where Asbel expected him to be – holed up in their bedroom, his nose pressed into a book. When Asbel approached him, the smaller boy made a very blatant point of ignoring him altogether by drawing up his knees and hunching his shoulders, making himself as small as possible. It was almost as though Hubert was attempting to disappear behind the book's thick cover.

"Listen, Hubert, I didn't mean to—"

"Go away, Asbel. I don't feel like talking right now."

"Aw, c'mon little brother. Don't be like that."

"I mean it, Asbel. Leave me alone."

Hubert pressed his small face even closer to the pages before him. There was no way he could possibly be reading like that.

"You're that mad at me, huh?"

No answer.

Asbel sighed and leaned against Hubert's desk.

"Careful!" cried Hubert. "You'll make a mess!"

In fact, Asbel had already managed to brush off a few sheaves of paper with his sleeve. Hubert set his book aside at last and scrambled to gather them up.

"What are you always reading about, anyway?" Asbel asked. "You've had that book for ages. Aren't you done with it yet?"

"A good story isn't something you just put away after you've read over it once or twice. I happen to really like this book."

"Yeah? How many times have you read it?"

"Maybe…fifteen times?"

"Fifteen? Holy crap!"

"Just because _you_ can only focus on one paragraph a day—"

"Okay, okay, I get it." Asbel held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture of surrender. "So, what is it about?"

After neatly and lovingly rearranging the fallen sheets of paper on his desk, Hubert returned his attention to the book in question. The cover was white with red stitching, boasting a golden border that framed a beautifully embossed cursive "L" at the very center. At first glance, the book looked totally brand new. Upon closer inspection, however, Asbel noted the blunted edges at the bottom of the spine, and the traces of wear on the spine itself where hands like Hubert's undoubtedly ran over it time and time again.

"It's a book of myths," said Hubert. He paused a moment before adding, "I think."

"You _think_? You've read it fifteen times, and you _think_?"

"It's kind of hard to tell."

"Is that what all these notes are?"

Asbel reached for the newly rearranged sheets of paper on the edge of Hubert's desk.

"No," Hubert squeaked, "don't touch those! They're in order!"

Asbel retracted his hand like a snake was after it.

"Yeesh, sorry."

Giving a pointedly irritated huff, Hubert pushed the beautiful book into Asbel's arms.

"If you're so curious, read it yourself. You might learn something."

"Learn? From a book of myths? What could I learn from a bunch of made-up stories?"

"You could learn about your namesake, for one thing."

"My…name…sake?"

"Namesake. You know. The person you were named after."

"Uh…"

Hubert's frustration was almost palpable.

"Oh, Asbel. Don't tell me you don't even know where your name comes from? Father loves the stories in this book. He named us both after heroes."

"If you say so…"

"Just read it!"

"Okay, okay."

He flipped open to the first page. The ink, like the stitching, was deep red. It made Asbel think of the word _crimson_, which in turn made him think of a roaring fire. He already felt uncomfortable.

The very first words he glimpsed, he read aloud.

"'May the flowers of Lhant bloom forever more.' What the heck does that mean? Since when has Lhant ever had any flowers?"

Hubert shook his head, the picture of disappointment.

"Flowers used to grow all over the town, Asbel. There was even a special place, Lhant Hill, where flowers grew all-year round. Don't you pay attention during our lessons? Wait. Don't answer that."

Asbel gave an embarrassed chuckle. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually paid attention one-hundred percent to any lecture. Perhaps when the soldiers had come visiting from Barona. Yes, he'd paid attention then. He sat in rapture at the dinner table while his father's guests told tales of their confrontations with the pirates, and of the expeditions into Orlan Woods where strange creatures and stranger people were said to roam. He marveled at the stories they told of their great king, and he marveled at the loyalty they so obviously felt towards him. Asbel felt special pride in belonging to a country where the soldiers of their army were still formally called Knights.

The Knights of Windor. How he longed to study underneath them, to one day join their ranks.

As Asbel was daydreaming, he caught a glimpse of the topmost sheaf of paper on the stack of papers he'd knocked over not too long ago. The reason it caught his eye was that it was very obviously a map. A beautifully drawn map at that. He set the book of myths aside.

"Wow, Hubert! Did you draw this?"

Asbel leaned over it, studying it closely, yet being very careful not to touch it. Hubert flushed pink.

"Y…yes. I drew it based on some descriptions in the book and on some of the more recent maps of Lhant that I could find in our library."

"What's this big bush here?"

"That's where Lhant Hill should be. Apparently there used to be a giant _tree_ growing there, and flowers all around. From what I can tell, though, it's all forest now."

"Geez, Hubert, you sure are smart."

"I-it was nothing, really. I found it interesting enough to research, is all. I don't do this sort of thing normally, you know."

"Yeah you do. You're a total bookworm. But that's okay! That's what makes you so awesome!"

"Gee, thanks, Asbel."

There was no missing the note of sarcasm in his little brother's voice, but Asbel only laughed and gave him a few friendly smacks on the back.

"Glad you're talking to me again, Hubert," he said.

For the third time in less than half an hour, Hubert turned bright pink. While Asbel generally found it amusing how easy it was to fluster him, he was a little concerned about it, too. Sometime soon, he'd have to teach Hubert how to be more assertive. He just couldn't stand the thought of anyone bullying his squeamish little brother.

"You'd better get ready for the party, Asbel," Hubert mumbled. "Mom'll get upset again."

"Yeah, yeah."

Turning to his side of the room, Asbel was quick to spot the new suit spread out neatly on his bed. He stuck out his tongue at the powder-blue color, and made a disgusted noise upon spotting the bowtie. A pink carnation stuck proudly out from the left breast-pocket.

"Seriously? I'm supposed to wear _that_? I'll look so stupid!"

"At least you don't have to wear collar frills."

"This is so lame. What do you say we ditch?"

Hubert looked genuinely aghast. "It's _your_ party, Asbel! You can't skip your own party! Besides, didn't you hear dad this morning? There's an important guest comi—"

"Aw, who cares about some stupid VIP. Dad's Mayor of Lhant. Everyone who visits is an important guest. I'm sick of important guests. I'm not going to this dumb party."

"But Asbel—"

"You're welcome to come with me, Hubert. Just don't try to stop me."

He flashed his little brother his widest grin, not knowing how reckless an image he struck just then. He certainly _felt _reckless. Mom and Dad were going to be so mad when they found out he was missing, but other than a mild fluttering in his stomach, Asbel couldn't care less. It was his birthday, and he was going to enjoy it.

"Wh-where will you go?" Hubert stammered.

"Where else?" said Asbel. "I'm going to Lhant Hill."

"I don't know, Asbel. This sounds like a bad idea…"

"It'll be fine. This place is so crowded, it'll be hours before anyone notices we're gone."

"It won't be hours, it'll be minutes. You're the birthday boy. They'll be looking for you! And even assuming it _is_ hours before they realize we're not here, what are we gonna do if we get lost, or, or if we get hurt! What if no one comes for us fast enough and—"

"Geez, Hubert, you worry way too much. Just relax, would you? Look, we'll be fine. If you're that upset about it, I promise we'll be back before it gets dark. I just wanna' check it out, that's all. Aren't you even a little bit curious?"

"Well…maybe a little…"

"That settles it then! We're going to Lhant Hill! But…you might wanna get rid of that foofy necklace first."

"It's not a necklace. They're collar frills."

"Yeah, that. It'll probably get in your way."

* * *

No one glanced twice at the two small boys as they slipped out the manor's front door. After all, what were two more bodies in all that mayhem? Filled with the euphoria of his victory, Asbel led the way out of Lhant proper and out onto the weed-wild North Lhant Road. The sun was still high, heavy and hot as it bore down on them even through the shade of overgrown trees.

It had been ages since the North Lhant Road was used. No one bothered tending to it anymore, since traffic between Windor and Fendel had ceased ages ago; the reason for this was long beyond memory. The "road" itself was barely discernible beneath their feet, strewn as the cracked earth was with pebbles, grass, and thick shrubs locked together by snaking vines.

Asbel navigated the chaos well enough, pausing every so often to make sure Hubert was still behind him. He noted with pride that his little brother seemed to have no trouble keeping up. They kept a steady pace, stopping at last before a tangle of bushes and roots. Hubert frowned, stared at his map, looked up, frowned again.

"There should be another path here," he mumbled, squinting into the shadows.

He looked unsettled, and Asbel didn't blame him; he felt unsettled, too. Something seemed very strange from the moment they left Lhant's protective walls. Whatever it was, though, Asbel couldn't place it. He cast his gaze around for something, anything at all, that might suggest some sort of walkway. There was nothing.

"Are you sure it's here, Hubert? Maybe we walked too far. Or not far enough."

"No, this is the place. I drew the map to scale and everything. The path should be right in front of us."

"I get it. Wait here."

"Wait, Asbel, what are you—"

"Stay here, Hubert."

Asbel spun away from the small hand reaching out to stop him and plunged headlong into the wall of bushes where a wall of bushes should not have been. Immediately he felt a sharp tug on his sleeve. With a grunt of effort, he yanked his arm forward as hard as he could. There was a loud _riiip_, and suddenly the sleeve caught in the branch that had been holding him up tore magnificently. Asbel found himself rolling head over elbow over bottom through leaves, broken branches, and mud. His momentum was only stopped by the rotting stump of a long dead tree.

"Asbel," a tiny voice called out. "Asbel, are you alright?"

"Y-yeah. I'm fine. Don't worry."

So he said, but his head was throbbing. He ran his fingers lightly over the tender ache at the back of his skull. A pretty solid lump there, but no blood. That was good. His sleeve, though…his sleeve was a disaster. Looking at it, he could only wince. It hung from his arm like a tattered flag. Mom definitely would not be happy about that.

Ah, well. There was no use worrying about it right now. It was done and over with. Asbel stood slowly and patted himself down. Nothing broken, so far as he could tell. His clothes and face were muddy. Twigs and pebbles decorated his hair. Other than that, he was golden. He had suffered worse in his short lifetime. Satisfied he would survive, Asbel took the opportunity to regain his bearings. To one side, the wall of bushes he battled through looked even thicker and more threatening than before. To the other side, a tiny depression in what once might have been a high rock wall or the side of a steep, stone cliff trickled with water. Beyond that, he glimpsed a faded path winding up the side of a shallow hill.

"Asbel," the small voice called out again, "I think we should go back. I don't like this place. Something isn't right."

"I found the path, Hubert. I'm just gonna check it out real quick."

"Don't! You don't know what's up there, it might be dangerous. Seriously, let's just go. It's getting dark, Asbel. You promised."

"Just five minutes!"

With that, he bolted up the path. Behind him Hubert was still shouting, but the already small voice only got farther and farther away. Asbel was struck by a pang of guilt, but only a little. This whole thing made him feel like a real knight on a real adventure. He felt like he could do anything, be anything, because he had already gone exploring all on his own. And besides, Asbel told himself, he could make it up to Hubert later by bringing him up here once he was sure it was safe.

His heart alight, Asbel at last crested the top of the hill.

He had a strange sensation, then. It was more than his breath hitching in his throat (which it did), and more, also, than his stomach clenching into a tight knot (which it also did). It was as if the ground beneath him had turned into waves. His knees suddenly did not feel strong enough to support him. His heart, which had already been racing, raced faster, and for a different reason. What that reason was, Asbel could not have said. Maybe it was the sight of the small lake glittering at the foot of the black tree husk, or the lilies (lilies!) wrapping its banks like a pearl necklace. (Flowers in Lhant. Unbelievable!). Maybe it was the unobstructed view of sky beyond the old dead tree, or the majesty of the ocean stretched out below like the sky's own reflection. Asbel wanted to believe it was these things that made his skin go cold and his mind stop, and not the person he saw sitting at the lake's edge, a boy with hair the color of early summer.

Sick dread replaced wonder in an instant. The boy by the lakeside was swaying. He had fallen asleep. He was leaning too far, too close to the water. Forcing his legs to work, Asbel ran faster than he ever had in his life. He caught the boy just as he began to fall.

"Look out!" Asbel shouted, pulling the stranger away from the water's edge.

Despite the commotion, the mysterious boy was slow to wake. Very, very slow. He blinked slowly, lifted his head slowly, stared at Asbel for a long, long time. It seemed like ages before his eyes finally lit up with what could even remotely be called awareness. They were lovely, those eyes, thought Asbel; like storm clouds, if storm clouds were captured in jewels.

"I'm Asbel," he said, sticking out his hand. He wasn't sure what compelled him to introduce himself so suddenly, but he felt it was right. He felt that if he didn't establish some sort of connection with this person right now, he would never get the chance again. Considering they had only just met, that thought should not have terrified him as much as it did. Somehow, though, the boy before him did not seem real. Something about him suggested an illusion, or a dream that one wakes up from too suddenly and too soon. Asbel wasn't sure what worried him more—that the boy might be nothing more than a vision, or that, if he was only dreaming, he was scared to wake up.

Only when the other boy leapt abruptly backwards and away did Asbel realize how close their faces had been. _Duh, Asbel_, he chided himself. Of course anyone would be freaked out by that. He felt his cheeks go hot, but he did his best to play it off.

"Woah, hey! You okay there, uh…kid?"

"Who are you?"

The hostility in his voice made Asbel go cold.

_No_, he thought, scrambling desperately to understand. _This is wrong. It shouldn't be like this_. _But…what _should_ it be like_?

"H-huh?" _I don't understand. _"I already told you, I'm Asbel." _You know me. You know me better than anyone…don't you?_

His head hurt again. The throbbing in his skull was more annoying than painful, but it made him nervous all the same. For some reason, he couldn't get his thoughts together. Looking at that face, he swore it was familiar. Yet every time he came close to piecing together what might have been a memory, coherency slid away from him like sand seeping from a broken hourglass.

"You're not Asbel," the boy accused acidly. "I don't know where you heard that name, but it's not funny. Now tell me who you are, or…or I'll scream!"

_No._

"What the heck?"

_Wait._

"Why would you do that?"

_Please, look at me. It's me. It's _me!

The boy breathed in deep. Asbel's chest felt tight. It shouldn't have bothered him this much to be hated by a stranger. He told himself that, but he was still angry, and he was hurt, and he was afraid. How was it that after everything, the groundings, the scoldings, the months and months his father spent so far from home, after all that, how was it that cold and blatant rejection by someone he didn't even know—no, he absolutely did not know him, he _could not_ know him—left him feeling so alone?

His knees shook, making it difficult to stand. Trembling, he reached out for the other boy. The boy retreated. Adding insult to injury, he slapped Asbel's hand away like it was nothing more than some disgusting fly.

"Stay away from me," the boy hissed.

Asbel still had his hand suspended in the air by the time the stranger had vanished from sight. Sickness rocked him. The world blurred, and he was alarmed to find water dribbling down his cheeks. He wasn't sad, only wildly confused and frustrated. So why the tears?

_This is wrong_, he thought again for what seemed like the hundredth time. _This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong—_

It occurred to him suddenly what had been bothering him for so long. In the stillness, Asbel closed his eyes and listened. This place, like the whole of North Lhant Road, was totally silent. There was no wind. There was no birdsong. There were no critters of any kind rustling amongst the copious plant life. The reality of the absolute deadness of the place pooled like ice in the pit of his stomach.

At some point during his reflection, Hubert appeared beside him. He called out to him tentatively, as if unsure that it was really his older brother he was talking to.

"…Asbel? Is everything okay?"

At first, Asbel nodded. Soon after, he shook his head. Without another word, Hubert sat down beside him. They kept their silence long enough for the last hint of the sun to sink quietly into the sea.

"What's going on, Hubert?" Asbel finally asked.

"What…what do you mean?"

How to explain that it felt like the world was different, had never, in fact, been what they thought it was; that something had only just begun, yet actually had been in motion since before time began? How to explain that with just one chance meeting (a meeting that wasn't really a meeting at all), Asbel felt like his whole life had changed? He could only shake his head a second time.

"Nothing. Forget it. Happy Birthday to me."

Hubert gave him a concerned look. Asbel only smiled. He looked up, and he saw stars.

* * *

_-end chapter one-_


	3. re:live (skip childhood? - ptII)

**moog: **oh me. oh my. richard is a hot mess of problems. special thanks to nienna, who beta'd this chapter for me and rescued me from a rather embarrassing mistake. thank you, nienna-senpai. you inspire me so. o/o may the richass guide your blade.

**soundtrack: **"Of the Night" by Bastille

* * *

A hand, swift, stinging, rough across his cheek. The sound that follows, echoing through the open spaces and among the high rafters. No words, only a stone glare and cold, cold silence. Only the communication of disappointment in his father's eyes. Nothing needs saying. With that slap, and with that look, Richard understands.

_You know better_, his father's unvoiced chastisement resounds. _That was a stupid thing to do_.

Richard does not dare ask to be forgiven, lest that hand come at him again. The right side of his face still prickles.

Rule Number One:

A prince does not disobey his father.

Rule Number Two:

A prince never begs forgiveness, even if he must apologize. He makes reparations, for actions speak louder than words.

In any case, Richard has his own reasons for biting his tongue. He is _not_ sorry, and lying to Father is worse than anything else he could have done. He would run away again if it meant being weaved into the stillness of that beautiful place, dozing by the lake among the lilies in the shadow of the black tree. It'd felt _right_ there, like he'd belonged. Never in his whole life had he felt that way, not about any place, nor about anyone. If only that boy had not come…

No, he would not think of that now.

Father stalks off, leaving the familiar view of his broad, retreating back further etched into Richard's memory. As an ambassador, as a father, as the son of ancient kings, it does not matter—that man is ever the picture of dignity.

A small, gloved hand touches Richard's shoulder. He turns, and his nanny smiles at him, her gentle, lavender eyes touched by sympathy. He cannot find it in him to smile back.

Sophie wraps him in her slender arms. She is small and soft and smells so sweetly, yet she is also warm and the hold she has on him is strong for all that it is gentle. Richard wonders if his mother, had she survived him, would have held him the same. He wonders, had she survived him, if his father would too.

Biting hard on his lower lip, Richard lifts his arms—they move slowly, feel heavy despite being so thin—and returns his nanny's embrace. At least while he is with her like this, he can hide his face.

Rule Number Three:

A prince must never, no matter what, be seen to cry.

* * *

They arrive at Lhant Manor as if in a parade—two Knights in front, followed by Richard and his father, side-by-side; only steps behind them, Sophie, the nanny, and Bryce, the tutor; at the tail of the procession, two more Knights. By the time they get there, and are ushered in, and have mingled, the stars framing Foselos are high and bright. Richard yearns to be outside, marveling at them. There is too much activity within the manor, and it is too obvious that he is not a part of it. He and Father stand to one side, smiling politely, watching a multitude of happy bodies twirl in tides about the dance floor. He is not even sure what this party is for.

"Master Richard, would you dance with me?"

Sophie's hand is open before him. As always, she dons her long, white gloves. If ever her palms lay bare, Richard never saw them. Timid, he looks to Father.

"Go on," Father answers. Brisk. Gruff. He does not speak often, and when he does, such is the result.

Still, permission is permission, another thing that Father does not often give. Ecstatic to be doing _something_, Richard takes Sophie's hand and glides with her out among the whirling, spinning, dizzy masses. Of course, he doesn't fail to notice the pair of Knights that follow close behind them, but at this point he could care less.

Dancing! In a crowd!

In Barona, this would be unheard of. In Barona, too many fancily garbed nobles tucked blades or poisoned needles into their sleeves. Even with Sophie around, even with Bryce, Barona was never safe.

It feels so good to be _free_, to move his feet, stepping in time with the music and the people at last. The heat, the rush, the thrill of company and song—his head spins with it all. His cheeks feel oddly stretched. He is smiling. Now, when was the last time he did that? It doesn't matter what this party is for; he's glad to be here. Like this, he can almost forget who he really is.

Richard, son of Ferdinand, the King's ambassador. Ferdinand, the true and rightful King of Windor. Richard Windor, a prince, dispossessed.

_No wonder so many want you dead. Imagine if people learned the truth…_

Cold seizes him. His knees lock.

Sophie pulls him close before he nearly collides with a hapless young couple dancing beside them. Richard, gray with sick, tries to squeak out an apology. Rule Number Two keeps his lips pressed into a thin line. It is the young couple, recognizing him as the ambassador's son, that apologizes. He shakes his head weakly, smiles weakly. Bowing, excusing themselves, they shuffle awkwardly away.

"I'm sorry, young master," says Sophie, guiding him to a space clear of the mess of dancers.

"Did I spin you too fast?"

Richard shakes his head, attempts a smile. His lips only twitch.

"Do you want to sit down?"

"It's okay, Sophie. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

He is not sure. His hands are shaking. He thrusts them into his pockets, swiftly, before anyone can see. The excited buzzing in his blood is something else now, a sinister ringing. He looks. He _really _looks. There are too many people. The manor is too small, too hot, too crowded. They are all too loud, much too loud and louder still, with feet stomping, music roaring, glasses clinking, strangers murmuring and hundreds laughing, laughing, laughing. They could be laughing at anything, or anyone. They could be laughing at him.

Father is leagues away, faces and faces far. Richard must get back, he knows it. The drumming in his head knows it. Gripping Sophie's hand, he tugs her in Father's direction. Weights like hands grabbing at his ankles, pulling, slow him.

_It's happening again._

His breath, dragging; his head, whirling. The world sways, side-to-side-to-side.

_Panic. I'm panicking. Must calm down._

He tells himself this, even as his heart races. He cannot move.

All at once, silence. Mild alarm amongst the crowd as the music, the dancing, stop. Still, everyone is smiling. Apparently, this is expected—yet Richard finds the silence worse than the incessant sound. There is a heaviness in the sudden hush that makes his shoulders ache. His gaze follows the turning heads to the stairway, where a young boy in sky blue descends with a pointed frown. Beside him, a dignified woman and another, smaller boy, both with hair a shocking depth of blue. In the back of his mind Richard thinks, _mother and son_. The thought comes from far away, a mere observation among the countless things he must and does observe on a day-to-day basis. He makes nothing of it.

The string instruments take up the traditional Windorian birthday song, and the gathered masses begin to sing. As if waking from a momentary dream, the world stirs again. Breath returns to Richard's lungs in an almost painful surge. Suddenly it is not he clinging to Sophie's hand, but Sophie clinging to his. Her fingers, small though they are, squeeze tight.

His eyes come back into focus, settling on his caretaker's ashen face.

"…Sophie?"

"It's him," she whispers, and if Richard didn't know any better he'd think the glimmer in her eyes to be tears. She turns, grips his shoulders, and kneels before him. "Richard, listen to me. That boy, he's—"

She is interrupted by the cheering that erupts as soon as the boy in question reaches the bottom of the stairs. Richard loses sight of him behind the flurry of adults. Still, he'd looked familiar. The name "Asbel" flashes through his mind. Scowling, he pushes it away. The only Asbel he knows is a young man, a knight loyal and brave, beloved by all who meet him; beloved especially by his king. The only Asbel he knows exists solely within his dreams, and within the stories that he writes.

_I misheard him_, Richard thinks, _that boy by the lake. I misheard him. I must have._

Even as his thoughts run thus, he overhears the damning words. He overhears, and goes cold all over again.

"Asbel!" comes the high-pitched shout.

A small girl with rose hair braided tight against her scalp flies by in a blur. He catches himself reaching out to her, the syllable "che" caught between his teeth. The "ch" is soft, a mere careless shush, and the "e" fades into a whisper. Richard's hand retreats, burned by a memory he swears he does not have. He curls his arms around his waist to stop his shivering. Sophie pulls him close, bracing her arms tight across his chest.

"Why do I…"

_Why do I know her name?_

The words stick in his throat. Sophie's grip on him tightens.

"You must have heard someone calling for her," she soothes. "There are lots of people here, Richard."

Never mind that he'd never fully given voice to his question. Never mind that Sophie forgot herself and addressed him as "Richard" instead of "young master." Such slips happen fairly often, and Richard does not mind. In fact, he sees it as testament to how well Sophie knows him, how close they are. Of everyone in his life, the flurry of personal security, the tutors, the dignitaries, the nobles, maids, footmen—_everyone_—Sophie has been by his side the longest. He cannot remember a time before Sophie was in his life, though he knows she only became his nanny around the end of his third summer. That moment he remembers vividly. The way she swept into his bedroom with the skirts of her white gown swirling like soft petals about her slender knees, her gloved arms held open to him; the way she plucked him up so easily, so naturally; how her skin smelt of fresh-cut flowers in an open field as she held him to her like a child long-lost and belovedly found; how could he not love her wholly, indiscriminately, after that?

Sophie knows him. She knows him better than anyone. It'd be no shock to him if she understood always the run of his thoughts, whether his voice found form for them or no. She is the only friend, the only mother that Richard has ever known. And so he let her hold him, and comfort him, even though it was the mark of a child (not a prince) to feel no shame being coddled in public.

"Why don't we go outside?" suggests Sophie. "It's too crowded in here, isn't it? You could tell me a story. You haven't told me one in a while. I want to hear more about the knight. About Asbel."

Asbel…Sophie is the only one Richard has ever told about Asbel. She is the only one in the world who he has let glimpse the fogspace of his dreaming, and even she does not know the extent of it—of the dark place at every dream's end, or of the dull ache it leaves in his chest each time he wakes.

Once, when he was very small, he'd cut his hand very badly during fencing practice. The fencing master had been sacked for allowing the ambassador's young son to handle sharpened blades—there was a reason for that of course, but Richard did not like to think about it. More than anything, he remembered the pain—the sharp burn as red rivers soaked his palm and pooled around his feet. He'd stared in fascination at his life source flowing freely and away, even as so many people gathered screaming around him. Even as he stared motionless and dumb at the chaos of his wound, his hand was wrapped tightly in someone's shirt to staunch the bleeding, and losing sight so suddenly of such a bright color had been a shock. Even after the hand was stitched, scarred, and healed, for a long time after Richard still felt a dull throbbing beneath his skin, sometimes so badly that he spent whole hours curled up in bed cradling his palm, biting back tears.

The ache he wakes with in his chest is like that, only much, much worse. It has to do with the dream about the knight, he knows it does, but he can never remember exactly how it ends. There is only the deep, deep dark. There is only the silence, and the cold, and the pain.

He cannot tell Sophie all of that. Even imagining the concern in her all too expressive eyes is more than Richard can bear.

Instead he disentangles himself from her protective embrace, turns to face her, musters a smile.

"I'm sorry, Sophie. I didn't mean to worry you. I'm alright, really. Besides, Father won't like it if we leave without telling him."

Thankfully she smiles back, though Richard knows she isn't fooled by him one bit. She never is.

Hand in hand, they skirt the dance floor, which is once again a crush of bodies in motion. The knights that had been ever nearby slide in to walk on either side of them, and they make it back to Father without incident. Beside him, they find Aston Lhant, mayor of this small outskirt town and master of this quaint yet spacious manor. Richard warms under the mayor's appraising eyes, and lets out a sigh of relief when the man nods in apparent approval.

"A well composed young man," says Aston, smiling now. "You can tell just by looking at him that he's bright." He turns to Richard. "It's nice to finally meet you. Your father and I are close friends. He speaks of you often, and with great pride. I can see now that his boasts are not _only_ boasts."

Richard finds the copper hair and the gentle, steady gaze to be somewhat familiar, though he cannot place why. Gathering his wits about him, he draws himself up to his full height (which is not much, admittedly, but still more than most boys his age) and, with perfect grace, he gives the Mayor of Lhant his best bow.

"It is an honor to meet you, sir," says Richard, and surprisingly, his voice does not tremble as it normally does when he speaks to imposing adults.

"And with perfect manners," the mayor exclaims. "If only my son was half as self-disciplined as you are."

Father's hand descends upon him, and it takes all of Richard's self-control not to draw back or to flinch. But Father merely places his hand atop his head, gently, and ruffles his hair in a way he hasn't done in years and years. The soft smile hiding in the shadows at the corner of his lip is something Richard has never seen before, not once. After the debacle of only hours ago, the shock of Father's sudden affection is near numbing. Richard's eyes prickle and burn. His vision blurs. He swallows hard, and clenches his jaw.

"He is skilled at much, my Richard," father muses, his hand still brushing at Richard's hair. He pauses a moment, considering, and then adds, "Remind me to enroll you in dance lessons when we return to Barona. We can't have you waddling about ballrooms like a baby penguin your entire life."

Fingers of heat trail up the back of Richard's neck and curl around his ears, reaching forward to warm his entire face. Behind him, Sophie giggles.

"Dancing lessons," says the mayor, his gaze fixed on some unseen thing through the crowd and across the wide room. "That's not a terrible idea. Maybe I'll enroll my son in dancing lessons too. It might teach him some discipline."

A chuckle. A shake of his auburn head.

Although Richard suspects Mayor Aston to be jesting, Father, smiling warmly, claps his friend amiably on the shoulder.

"You should let him come to Barona, with us. There isn't really anyone Richard's age back at the palace. I suspect it gets rather lonely for him. Besides, if they take lessons together, they may be more motivated to do their best. Friendly competition and all."

"Your Ma…Forgive me, Lord _Ambassador_…I could not possibly impose on you in such a way."

"Nonsense, Aston. I'm inviting him. He can stay with us. Our quarters are more than sufficient to accommodate a single child."

"Even so…"

"If it's his studies your worried about, he can continue them with us. Bryce is the best tutor in Barona, and an excellent fencing master on top of that. Your boy is thirteen now, isn't he? No better time to learn more about the world."

"I don't disagree…I would have to discuss it with my wife."

"Of course."

Even as Father and Mayor Aston Lhant continue making plans—glancing now at Richard, now at the mysterious Lhant son who must even now be mingling amongst the birthday wishing men and women of the entire town—Richard repeats the mayor's words in his head, again, and yet again, and again once more.

_Your Majesty. He was going to say Your Majesty._

_He knows who we are. There is someone who knows._

Panic rises. At once Sophie's hands are on his shoulders, a firm yet gentle grip. She smiles at him, a bright smile that ebbs his bubbling anxiety.

"It's okay, Richard," she whispers, kneeling so that she's eye-level with him. "Lord Aston is a good man. I've known him for a long, long time. You can trust him, okay?"

Richard has no time to wonder how she knows, how she always, always knows, because suddenly she is standing again, her amethyst eyes open wide in shock, in joy, in wonder, in fear. He turns to learn what has caught her attention so fully, only to find himself staring into a beloved sea.

A sunlit sea, a shallow bay at low-tide in summer, with flecks of gold glittering in the warm, white sands. Yet even still a sea deep and unknowable, sun struck as it is. Inviting in its unknowableness, daring, no, _welcoming_ would-be explorers to wade, to sink, to drown.

Richard stumbles backwards, one step, two. Sophie catches him. Father and the mayor eye him curiously, and so does the sea.

"Holy crap! It's you!"

"Asbel! Mind your tongue!"

The boy, Asbel, flinches, but only just. He seems more interested in Richard, and Richard wishes desperately for him to lose that interest as quickly as possible.

"_It's you_," repeats Father, almost smiling. "You speak as if you've met my son before, young master Asbel."

Richard does not find this to be worth smiling about in the least. He wants to crawl into a dark hole deep in the earth and stay there, forever. Anything. Anything to escape wanting to leap headlong into the promise of that sea. Anything to escape the hollow rhythm that that name beats against his heart.

Even as he stands, dumbstruck, wishing with all his strength, the boy called Asbel reaches out, seizes his hand, and stares him dead in the eyes. Richard squeezes his eyes shut, but that only forces him to focus on the rough fingers enslaving his palm, on the coarse, warm skin and the thrumming pulse in the narrow wrist. His eyes open once more, only to trap him in the other's searching gaze. Pounding, his heart hitches in his throat.

Asbel's serious expression dissolves into a small frown.

"No," he says, his voice low. "No, I really don't know you at all, do I? I thought…Well, doesn't matter."

And he lets go Richard's hand. And he steps away.

All of this happens in the span of seconds, when to Richard it had felt like minutes. When he finally remembers to breathe, there is something lacking in the flavor of the air. A bitter taste, like ash or dirt, settles on his tongue. Somewhere in the spaces between his thoughts there lurks the specter of a memory, but he cannot grasp it. Straining for it sends a sharp pain shooting through the front of his skull. Reluctantly, he lets it go.

Leaning back, the boy called Asbel folds his arms and grins. The carnation tucked so proudly into the breast pocket collapses totally. A careless child, this one. The suit becomes him, yet somehow it's so obvious that he is exactly uncomfortable in it. Perhaps it is the way he stands—shoulders tense, drawn up, all his weight set on one leg while the free foot tap-tap-taps a nervous rhythm almost in keeping with the music from the band. Despite his discomfort, Richard finds himself having to bite back a smile—this boy, Asbel, had looked so much more natural in that pocket of space on the cliff side, with his hair tousled and twigged and his face a muddy mess.

"So," says Asbel, "dance buddies huh? Man, that sounds lame. But at least I'll finally get to see the capitol! Hey, is the palace really as big as they say it is? Are there a lot of knights there? I bet you throw some pretty fancy parties, right? Nothing like this—"

The mayor shoots his son a withering look, effectively silencing him. "Your mother worked hard to put this together for you. Do not disrespect her, Asbel."

Asbel mutters indistinctly, huffs, frowns again. He scratches the back of his head, and a faint hint of red tints his cheeks. Richard almost smiles. Almost.

"You ought to show your guests more respect, Asbel," the mayor goes on. "You didn't even greet them properly. These are very important friends of ours, you know."

"Ohhhhh, so _you're_ the V.I.P., huh? Who'd have guessed!"

Behind him, Mayor Aston Lhant shakes his head. And Father…Father does something Richard has no memory of him ever having done before—Father laughs. This strange boy, course, crude, shameless, had made Father—_his _father, Ferdinand, the stone giant, the cold sentinel—laugh. He goes on laughing, even as the mayor apologizes for his son's uncouth behavior.

Richard's almost-smile sinks into the pit of his stomach.

This isn't jealousy. It's…wonder? disbelief? denial? No. None of those, either. None account for the fluttering in his abdomen or for the sudden lightness where moments before had only been a suffocating weight. None account for the urge in him to reach out, to take up those hands and to hold them for no other reason than they were worth being held.

Finally, he settles upon it.

_Grateful. I'm grateful to him._

"I apologize," he says, even now forcing himself to look directly into those mystifying blues. "It seems I have been the rude one. You're right, Father. Asbel and I have met before. But I'm afraid I didn't properly introduce myself."

Strange how those eyes glimmer as Richard steps forward, how the pupils (small whirlpools in the ocean depths) suddenly contract, dilate, contract again.

Uncomfortable still, terrified still, he extends his hand. Those eyes follow his hand all the way to where it stops, hovering midway between the two of them.

"My name is Richard. It's a pleasure to meet you, Asbel."

Asbel, who had lunged for Richard's hand only moments before, now eyes it with uncertainty. The passing seconds become a minute, and the minute becomes too long. Richard swears that his pounding heart must be audible to half the manor. If his knees were not already pressed together, he was certain they would be knocking. As it is, he can barely keep his feet.

_He doesn't trust me. He's afraid of me. _

_He hates me. He hates me._

_He must hate me._

Dropping his hand, dropping his gaze, his lips move, but no words come out. He takes a step back, seeking for the warmth of Sophie behind him. Before he can step again, however, Asbel catches his hand a second time.

"S-sorry!" he blurts out (and he is shaking, more than Richard is shaking, and Richard is amazed to see tears flowing freely down the odd boy's still rosy cheeks). "I…I'm glad to meet you, really! I was just surprised, since before you…you…ah, crap."

Still holding tight to Richard's hand, Asbel swipes his free arm across his eyes to brush away the tears.

The mayor lays a concerned hand on his son's shoulder. "Are you alright, Asbel?"

"Y-yeah, sorry, I…I don't know why I'm…man, this is embarrassing."

He smiles then, a bright, warm, open smile, full of easy Windorian summers, of thirteen years roaming over green hills and down long, lazy valleys, of days spent picking apples and climbing windmills, and of hours and more hours spent watching boats slide in and out of harbor, meanwhile gazing across a sunset sea and dreaming of far-beyonds. He smiles, even as tears continue to fall.

Richard's chest aches. It aches with a burn and a depth beyond what his dreams have ever left him with before. Despite that, he can't bring himself to let go of Asbel's hand. There is safety in that hand. There is promise, and acceptance, in those eyes.

Throat tight, he realizes he is already sinking. He is sinking, and sinking fast.

* * *

_-end chapter two-_

* * *

**moog: **yes, hi, hello! i normally don't insert extensive author's notes, but i thought i'd take this opportunity to explain a bit about a certain stylistic choice i made, which, if that sort of thing interests you, feel free to keep reading! if it does not, then no worries! skipping my notes should not affect your understanding of the story overall.

now then! /cracks knuckles/ let's begin, shall we?

the stylistic choice i'm examining is that of writing richard's pov sections in the present tense while asbel's are written in the normal past-tense style. this is a rare and unusual stylistic choice to make, and fairly difficult to pull off (i love writing in the present tense, but i struggle with it a lot, and i don't claim at all to be good at it .~.). it's even more unusual, and not generally a good idea, to switch between a passive voice and an active voice within the same story. so just why the heck did i choose to enmesh myself in an unholy stylistic nightmare?

well, i actually considered my choice very, very carefully. i do, in fact, have reasons for doing this that, as a writer (and as someone who really loves richard), are very important to me. i'm not saying that they're _good_ reasons. heck, i'm not even saying that my choice was right. what is "right" in writing, anyway? if nothing else, you may take this as my excuse to rant about richard for a small while 8)

see, when i sit down to write about richard, or to even begin _thinking_ about writing richard, i immediately latch onto some of his most basic qualities-that he is ridiculously intelligent, that he is observant to the point of being hyper-aware; and when it comes to young richard, i also consider his inability to trust, and how the constant threat on his life forces him to be hyper-vigilant about studying, understanding, and even predicting the behavior of the people around him. all of this carries over into his adult life too, of course, but at that point his skills are more refined and manifest a little differently, so i won't go into my thoughts on that just yet. in any case, the only way that i felt able to even begin to capture the moment-by-moment of richard's thoughts, and to give attention to details as he would have given them attention, was to write his sections in the active present-tense. all points of time meet in the "now", and that's where richard needs to be if he's to make any sense of the hectic world around him.

asbel, on the other hand, is written in the passive voice because he has a bit more leeway (at least in his childhood) to let time go by around him without giving it much thought. he can't wait to grow up. he can't wait to become a knight. his eyes are always looking forward to the next challenge, to the next adventure. the "now" only concerns him when he's bored, because only then does he become aware of an immediate present in which he is trapped. even then he does not stay in that mind state long, for he is bound to spend it thinking of a future in which he is _not_ bored.

so, yes. those, more or less, are the reasons behind my stylistic narrative choices in this story. thank you for your time, and i hope you enjoy! comments and criticisms are always welcome!

have a nice day!


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